The Fatslayer Chronicles

A couple of days ago I watched two people run from opposite directions for the same bus.

The first was a man who I’d have guessed was in his mid-to-late thirties. He was a bit on the tubby side, and didn’t strike me as the especially athletic type. He was wearing a suit and overcoat, and carrying a briefcase, a couple of newspapers, a large bottle of water and an umbrella. As soon as he saw the bus he put his head down, picked up his heels, and literally sprinted to catch it.

The other person was a woman who I’d guess was in her late twenties. She was slim and toned, and gave the impression that she worked out regularly. Maybe that impression was given just because she was dressed for the gym, in Nike sweats and trainers – I judged by appearances, I suppose.

Anyway, fit or not, she wasn’t carrying anything except for a wallet-sized rucksack, and unlike the tubby, laden-down guy, she looked primed and ready for action.

When she saw the bus, though, she took a quick glance around her, and then she made a half-hearted attempt to break into a trot, barely lifting her feet an inch off the pavement.

He caught the bus easily, with time to spare, whilst she missed it by a mile.

After it had pulled away, she unleashed a volley of swearing in its wake, and then kicked the bus stop so savagely that it’s a wonder that she didn’t break her toe.

I was intrigued.

If she was that concerned about catching the damn bus, why didn’t she make a bit more of an effort to catch it? She was a young, slim, fit-looking woman in the prime of her life, yet she didn’t feel willing or able to run twenty yards.

What was all that about?

I thought about it a lot, and watched more people run for the bus (the stop is right outside my office window), and eventually decided that breasts have a lot to answer for.

I came to the conclusion that if we women had boobs like a couple of overcooked fried eggs we’d be a lot less inhibited and a lot more sporty. Every single woman running for the bus seemed inhibited to a greater or lesser degree by the jiggling and the joggling of her breasts. Women ‘ran’ with their arms crossed, with their bags pressed against their chests, with their coats wrapped around them like mummies’ bandages.

And every single one of them took a precautionary look around to see that the coast was clear (of what, exactly? Leering men? Jeering boys?) before they even attempted to break out of a walk.

It was a sad spectacle.